


Someday

by shawsameen



Series: Solace [2]
Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, this is so self-indulgent but i don’t care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28596621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawsameen/pseuds/shawsameen
Summary: A smile curls on Carla’s lips, gentle and content, and she falls back down onto the pillows without any urgency to interfere in what she suspects is currently happening in her kitchen.
Relationships: Carla Rosón Caleruega/Samuel García Domínguez
Series: Solace [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087496
Comments: 20
Kudos: 48





	Someday

**Author's Note:**

> as you might have noticed, this is part of a series set in the same universe as sunflower. i’ve had this idea for a while and finally decided to just write it lol. i have two more sunflower companion pieces planned, although i can’t guarantee when they’ll get written dksjdjs but i hope you enjoy this for now :)

Carla wakes to the distinct smell of something burning.

It’s not what _actually_ wakes her, though. No, that had been the clatter that had rung out just half a second ago, loud enough to seep through the barrier of her bedroom’s closed door and cause her to roll over, blearily blink her eyes open, and squint against the rays of sunlight spilling over the bed. Now, she props herself up on her elbows and glances around in groggy confusion. The space of mattress next to her is cold and empty. 

She sniffs the air. Something is _definitely_ burning. 

Obviously, her first instinct is to go investigate, but then her internal clock and calendar catch up to her and she remembers what day it is. Sunday, but a Sunday that’s been annually special for the past five years.

A smile curls on Carla’s lips, gentle and content, and she falls back down onto the pillows without any urgency to interfere in what she suspects is currently happening in her kitchen.

She stares up at the ceiling instead, getting lost in thought. Honestly, even after everything, she still can’t believe how different her life is now compared to just a handful of years ago. As a child, she used to spend this day having a mostly silent breakfast with both of her parents, and then sitting through a boring, indulgent dinner with them and their friends later on in the evening. Occasionally, they’d skip that tradition and go on some sort of trip, but that was rare.

Fast-forward nearly a decade, and she would spend this day embroiling herself in work more than usual, trying _not_ to think of her mother. But then again, that had been her general norm after moving away from Madrid. That, and the loneliness.

Sometimes she expects to wake up in New York like this has all been the longest, cruelest dream her subconscious could have ever come up with, but mostly, she’s struck.

 _Mostly,_ she’s just unbelievably, gratefully happy. 

At the muffled sound of approaching footsteps and voices, Carla tugs the comforter over her head. There’s a soft knock on the door, but when she doesn’t answer, it quietly creaks open a second later. The voices are still hushed, although the smaller one is clearly struggling more than the other to stay quiet. The mattress dips slightly. Carla patiently waits under the covers, her cheeks aching with how wide she’s grinning. 

Then that little voice whispers, “I know you’re awake, mommy,” and she grins even wider when the blanket is pulled back and suddenly, she’s looking at the beaming face of her five year-old son. 

“And how did you know that, huh?”

Instead of answering, he squeals as Carla sucks her lip between her teeth and starts tickling her fingers over his sides. He falls onto his back, squirming and laughing uncontrollably, and Carla relentlessly follows. It’s only when his legs start to wildly kick out in an effort to get away from her that her husband finally decides to intervene.

“Julián, not too rough,” Samuel warns, although there’s a fond smile on his face and warmth in his eyes when Carla looks up and meets them. “You don’t want to accidentally put your mom in the hospital _today_ of all days, do you? That would be a really bad way of showing how much you love her.”

Carla backs off, giving Julián the chance to stare up at his dad upside-down, frowning. “I don’t want to put her in the hospital _ever_ ,” he stresses, then sits up and flings his arms around Carla’s neck in a breathless hug. “Happy Mother’s Day, mommy!”

“Thank you, baby,” she murmurs, smiling into the curve of his cheek. She squeezes him tight, petting her hand over the thick brown waves atop his head; they remain as untamed as ever despite it. 

“We brought you breakfast,” Samuel says, and Carla’s eyes finally fall to the tray he’s been carrying. It’s littered with all sorts of things, including—ah, darkened pancakes. So that’s where the smell was coming from. 

Carla grins and settles Julián at her side, making room for Samuel to set the tray down over the tops of her thighs. She takes a deep breath. Underneath the burnt scent, it does smell pretty good. It even looks good, actually; there’s a fruit parfait, a small plate holding a warmed croissant, some eggs and sausages, and a steaming cup of coffee. She can smell the cinnamon and honey already stirred into it.

It’s way too much food for most people to eat on their own, let alone her, but she doesn’t have to wonder why based off the eager look on Julián’s face. She wraps her arm around his shoulders. “It looks great. Did you make all of this?”

He shrugs, somewhat bashfully. “I just helped.”

“He’s being humble,” Samuel says, carefully settling onto the mattress so that Julián is sandwiched between them. “You’re a natural in the kitchen.”

“I burnt the pancakes,” he grumbles, twisting the comforter in his tiny hands. “I told daddy not to keep them, but he wouldn’t let me throw them out. He said that you’d love them, anyway.”

“And he’s right, because you made them. I bet they’re delicious,” Carla replies, promptly picking up her fork and using the edge to cut herself a triangle of pancake. She sticks it in her mouth, doesn’t wince at all at the charred flavor that immediately bursts onto her tongue, and presses her lips to Julián’s temple once she’s done chewing. “Mmm, yummy. See? I do love them. You know, I still remember the first time your dad made me pancakes.” She ducks down to whisper conspiratorially in Julián’s ear, amusedly eyeing Samuel over the top of his head the whole time, “These are even better.” 

Julián relaxes a little. His face brightens an instant later as Carla leans back and he fixes his big, hazel eyes on her—he inherited those from her, but the smile he gives her next? It makes him the spitting-image of his father, eyes disappearing behind those thick lashes, dimples popping out at her. “But we got you an actual present, too! Can I go get it?” 

The question is directed at Samuel, although Julián is already in the process of getting up before it’s even fully out of his mouth. Samuel chuckles and eases him back down. 

“How about we let mom finish eating, okay? We don’t want the food to get cold.” 

Julián begins to deflate, so Carla smooths his hair away from his forehead and picks up one of the extra forks tucked against the side of the tray. “Here, I’m going to need help finishing everything you made me. And this way, it’ll just get eaten even faster, and then you can give me my gift.”

“Okay,” he agrees, immediately bypassing the fork altogether and reaching for one of the sausages, then sheepishly taking the utensil from her instead when Carla just gives him a look. Samuel grabs his own fork as well, and for a while the three of them sit there and share the meal, chatting randomly about their plans for the remainder of the day. 

They’re going to meet up with the rest of their family at Guzmán and Nadia’s house later, which is where they usually gather for a Mother’s Day barbecue in the afternoon. Omar will probably burn the meat like always, Marina and Rebe will give him shit for it, and Carla and Lu will laugh from their seats from the patio as they catch up over glasses of wine like they haven’t seen one another in weeks, and not days. Ander, Nadia, and Guzmán will intervene in whatever bickering match their daughters are currently engaged in before the girls suddenly decide that they’re friends again and gang up on Valerio, whose fake protests about having a bad back always fall on deaf ears. And when Julián isn’t joining in on their rowdiness, he’ll be fused to Pilar’s hip, because she loves her grandson more than anything. 

Yes, Carla’s plans are still predictable. That’s the one thing that hasn’t changed about this day. But the main and most important _difference_ is that she loves Mother’s Day now, and she wouldn’t alter a thing about how she spends it for the world. 

“Can you _please_ open your present now?” Julián asks impatiently once the last of the eggs are cleared.

Carla pretends to think about it just to torture him, tapping her chin in thought. “Hmm… fine, go get it,” she says with a grin, swiftly moving the tray aside as her son wastes no time in bolting up from the bed. He darts toward the doorway, his socked feet slipping on the hardwood floor as he turns to go further down the hall just a tad too sharply. 

“Careful!” Samuel calls after him, but he’s chuckling and shaking his head, and then he gives Carla a smile. 

“Hey, you,” she says, scooting over and leaning in to capture his lips. 

He hums into the kiss, hand coming to a rest on her hip, where his thumb draws lazy circles on the sliver of skin between her camisole and pajama pants. “This is a little late, but good morning,” he mumbles when they pull apart, his smile wider now. “And happy Mother’s Day.”

“Thanks,” she beams, her own thumb idly brushing the corner of his mouth. “Whose idea was the breakfast in bed, by the way?”

“Juli’s.” Samuel chuckles softly. “Although, I’m pretty sure Lu planted the idea in his head the last time she came over.”

“Still, it’s sweet,” she notes. “ _He’s_ sweet.”

“Well, he was raised by the best mom in the world and he knows it,” Samuel murmurs. Despite herself, Carla feels her cheeks flush, and then he cups them in either of his hands. “Remember, I told you, you were going to make a great mom someday. And you did, you’re an _amazing_ one. I was right.”

He kisses her tenderly; after all this time, Carla’s stomach still skips with it. Even so, when she settles into his side a second later, she grumbles, “Don’t get so smug about it.”

Samuel huffs. They lie there for a moment, his fingers toying with the tips of her hair and Carla’s brushing across the front of his chest, when she makes a neutral, thoughtful noise. 

“And how much of a mess did the two of you make in the kitchen?”

It’s Samuel’s turn to blush now. She doesn’t have to look at him to know that he’s doing it. 

“I promise, I’ll have everything cleaned up before you even leave this bed.” Carla laughs through her nose, and a second later, his voice rumbles underneath her ear again. “Or I could make it up to you in a different way…”

She scoffs as his hand wanders down to her ass. “You’re not getting out of cleaning that easily.”

Suddenly, she’s giggling in shocked excitement as Samuel rolls her onto her back. He’s propped over her and giving her a smirk, and it’s so sexy that Carla has to fight the urge to flip them and pin him down. The battle is made even harder as he ducks his head and mouths along the slope of her neck, that smile still deviously curved against her skin. 

“I’m not?”

His breath is hot on her neck, and his hand has already crept up beneath her shirt, fingers brushing the spot on her ribs that makes her shiver and melt. He sucks her pulse point and swirls it with his tongue. Her eyes fall shut as she bites her lip in a smile. 

But then she hears distant rustling coming from Julián’s room just a few doors down. Besides, Carla’s always been great at the self-control thing, anyway. 

“ _No,_ you’re not,” she breathes sternly, pushing Samuel away from the hollow of her throat with a finger to his forehead. “And you’re not having sex with me when our son is going to burst back in here at any second, either.”

He gives her an innocent grin. He looks ridiculous. She fucking loves him. 

“I can’t just make out with my wife?”

“Not when you do that thing with your tongue, no.”

Samuel laughs, getting off of her. “I wasn’t trying to have sex with you,” he says as she shifts up and leans beside him again. “That’s for later tonight, when I know we won’t be interrupted and can take my time.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but can’t help how the look is also heated. It instantly vanishes the moment Julián reappears, the little gift bag he’s holding swinging in his hand as he runs to the bed and launches himself onto the mattress. Instead of settling back between both of them though, he sits down on Carla’s knees and places the bag in her lap.

“I wonder what it is.” Carla blindly reaches inside, and Julián giggles at her excitement, ramped up for his benefit but no less genuine. Her hand wraps around something book-shaped. 

The smile on her face dims somewhat once she pulls it out and her eyes fall upon the cover. It _does_ look like a book, but a decidedly homemade one; the binding is a simple piece of pink construction paper with hole punches haphazardly lining the spine, tied together by string. The cover is littered with all sorts of drawings, mostly stick figures doing random things: two brown-haired and one blonde, riding in a car, lounging at the beach, or just standing hand-in-hand. 

Across the front, in green crayon and Julián’s large, uneven, five year-old handwriting, reads: _Mommy’s Memories._ Inside of the cover, in only slightly smaller text that gets more condensed because he’d been running out of room on the line, it says: _Caleruega Publishing Company._

Only, all three of the words are misspelled. Carla lets out a watery laugh.

She senses Samuel lean closer, looking over her shoulder. “This one was all him,” he says, voice low, as she begins to slowly turn through the pages. “He refused to let me help him.”

“Mommy, you’re crying,” Julián says hesitantly. “Do you not like it?”

Inside are countless photographs, stuck to the paper with a glue stick and bordered by more colorful drawings done in marker, crayon, colored pencil. There’s a group one of her, Lu, Rebe, Marina, and Nadia from when they took a trip to Ibiza a few years back; another one of her and Guzmán, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, smiling ear-to-ear. A family photo of the three of them and Pilar at Christmas. A copy of her and Samuel grinning into their first kiss as husband and wife on their _real_ wedding day, backlit by the setting sun.

Carla’s fingers trace over a picture of the both of them, Amaya, Yasmin, and a two month-old Julián on the girls’ joint party for their eighth birthday. They’re turning twelve soon. And to think, now her son is the same age they were when Carla first met them. 

She’s been a part of this huge, loving family for the better part of seven years. And yeah, she deserves it. She deserves _them._

“Baby,” she says, pulling Julián to her and kissing him on his hairline, “I absolutely love it. It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”


End file.
